Necessary
by elphiefan19
Summary: A fill for a lost prompt on the meme - 5 times sherlock faked his death and one time he nearly died. Pre-Reichenbach
1. John

A/N - The was originally a response to a prompt from the kink meme (and I've lost the link, I'm a horrible fan) stating '5 times Sherlock faked his death, and once when he very nearly died, but everyone thought he was faking,' but I haven't decided if I'm going to continue or just leave it as a one shot? (Also, it's my first fic and I'm not going to plague the internet with six chapters of horrible if it doesn't work.) Either way, here it is. So enjoy? And maybe review so I know if it's worth continuing?

* * *

The first time it happened they had been working the case for the past two days. John had been conveying the newest leads to Lestrade at New Scotland Yard when the text from Sherlock had come through with nothing but an address. They had jumped into a police car and sped across London, although it had taken them a good fifteen minutes to reach their destination, which apparently was a tiny bar in the middle of the block.

Five minutes later they had determined that Sherlock was not, in fact, in the bar and they split up on the street, hoping maybe he had ducked into another restaurant. All of John's texts had gone unanswered, and John was beginning to worry, trying desperately to steer his mind away from thoughts of bombs and pools and a certain consulting criminal. Donovan was not amused, chalking it all up to Sherlock simply being Sherlock and predicting that he had gotten bored and left. But Lestrade, seeing the worry starting to gather on John's face, made the decision to search for a little bit longer.

John had been walking for probably about fifteen minutes now, ducking in the surrounding alleys and checking all the establishments that were still open this late on a weekday. Part of him figured Sherlock had just gone home, moving on to chase after a new lead without telling John. That part of him was angry that Sherlock would continue to do such things after what had happened before. But part of him, a small part he was trying to ignore, was tapping away at his brain, flashing horrible images across his mind of all the situations Sherlock might have gotten himself into. He sighed, running his hand over his face, and his phone beeped, the noise piercing through the silence of the evening.

One glance at his phone and John had never run faster.

What seemed like an eternity but really equated to about five minutes later, John sprinted around the corner to the location Lestrade had instructed and almost came to a stop as he saw an ambulance screech to a halt in front of the harried detective inspector. John ran the last few steps over to him as the paramedics took off down a small alleyway behind Lestrade. The look on his face was enough to stop John's heart. He turned towards the alley and saw the paramedics huddled over a still man, his dark curly hair drenched by the puddles on the ground. John made to go over to them, but Lestrade grabbed his arm.

"Let them do their job," Lestrade commented quietly, and John looked frantically from Lestrade back to the immobile figure of his flatmate sprawled partially out of his view.

"I'm a doctor, I can help..." Lestrade looked back at him and John felt himself swaying under the inspector's gaze.

"John, we...we tried. I'm so sorry."

Later, John wouldn't remember the inspector catching him as he collapsed.

* * *

John came to with a nagging sensation that something was very, very wrong. He took a breath and suddenly the world crashed in on him and he couldn't breathe. After a moment there were hands on his face and a naggingly familiar voice at his ear.

"John. Open your eyes."

John kept his eyes shut - opening them would be acknowledging the events that had just occurred, something John's mind was both refusing and attempting to do. Sherlock Holmes, his flatmate, his best friend, was dead. 221B would no longer be teeming with experiments, with violin music, with case files, with warm silence. Instead it would be filled with a cold silence, and now he was back where he started - just John Watson, war veteran, alone.

"He's hyperventilating." Another voice, this one belonging to another familiar voice, cut across his mind, and John felt two cold hands on either side of his face.

"John, please."

Something about that _please_ felt so inherently wrong that John automatically forced his eyes open. The face he was greeted with was not the one he was expecting.

"You're dead."

Sherlock huffed. "As you can clearly see, John, I am not. No need to get over emotional."

John looked frantically around, noticing now that he was in the back of an ambulance. Lestrade was sitting behind Sherlock on John's right, his eyes clouded with worry, but Sherlock simply looked bored. John stared up at Sherlock, almost not believing his eyes.

"We needed the suspect to think I was dead." Sherlock continued, still staring at John in what could have been taken as a disinterested glance but John could see the carefully concealed concern in his pale blue eyes. "The only way to do that was to convince you, which was a lot easier than I expected. If he thought I might be dead, he'd definitely come back to the scene to check, and we needed him to let his guard down long enough for Lestrade to arrest him. We didn't expect you to fai-"

And abruptly, Sherlock was falling backwards, clutching his jaw as Lestrade caught him. John sat up, grabbing Sherlock's shirt and pulling him forward.

"You punched me." For once, Sherlock seemed surprised, and John heard that voice that had grown in his head from all his time with Sherlock chastising him for stating the obvious.

"Don't you dare pull that again."

"It was necess-"

"I don't care what you think was necessary," John accentuated his words with a violent shake to Sherlock's shirt. Sherlock had locked his hands around John's wrists, gently trying to pry his hands off of his shirt by now, but John just grabbed tighter. "That was so far out of line it's almost impossible for me to believe you thought it was OK!"

"We got him, John, it worked, and no one got hurt - there's no need to get all riled up-"

"No need?" John's voice escalated to an almost deafening roar. "I thought you were dead! That's plenty worth getting riled up for." Suddenly the reality of the situation hit him and he loosened his grip on Sherlock shirt, falling back on the gurney as all his energy left him. Everything was going to be ok. Sherlock wasn't dead. John dropped his hands from Sherlock's shirt, but Sherlock's hands stayed over John's wrists. John ducked his head.

"I thought he'd gotten to you."

There was a sharp intake of breath from Sherlock, and John felt him lean forward so his shoulder was right next to John's head, which John took advantage of. They sat there for a moment, Sherlock's hands loosely on John's wrists and John's head on Sherlock's shoulder before Sherlock finally spoke.

"Never again."


	2. Mycroft

A/N - oh god I've become one of those writers who updates once a year apparently. I decided to write another chapter, and while this one is significantly less-decent than the not-quite-decent first chapter, I figured I'd post it anyways. Hopefully I'll get the next chapters up soon? Finding inspiration is hard, I'm really impressed with everyone who manages to update regularly! As always, reviews or suggestions are much appreciated. (This chapter is super weak, I know, but I'm already working on the next, which I can promise is much better.)

* * *

The British Government stood staring straight ahead, the only stagnant thing within a 100 meter distance of the blazing building in front of him. He could do nothing but watch as the firefighters advanced on the inferno the abandoned flats had become, trying in vain to extinguish as much as they could to commence their rescue mission.

A rescue mission Mycroft knew was already too late.

He closed his eyes to try and still the deluge of deductions he could not stop - how the fire started (gas explosion), the chances of survival for the two still trapped inside (10%), the time they had before the second floor collapsed (less than two more minutes) -

If only Sherlock had waited like he'd instructed him to do. Not that Sherlock listened to anything he ever said. He had come barging into his office earlier that afternoon, going on about some conspiracy and how, since it had to do slightly with the government, Mycroft should give Sherlock all the information he could find on the laundering scheme. Mycroft had told Sherlock that kind of clearance would take time, but he would have the information to him by the evening if possible, and a very irritated Sherlock had stormed out of the office, a slightly apologetic army doctor in tow.

Not two hours later Anthea was showing Mycroft surveillance of the detective and his blogger rushing into the headquarters of the supposed conspiracy group and not exiting. An quarter hour later and Mycroft had confirmed that the two had been taken hostage for trespassing, and Mycroft couldn't help but think that if Sherlock hadn't been so frustratingly impatient he would have had his blasted information and managed to not put himself and John into unnecessary danger.

Mycroft mobilised his extraction team, making sure to note that Sherlock would owe him massively for the strings he had to pull, and made his way to the flats. He was less than a mile away, however, when his phone rang. And then the evening had taken a drastic turn for the worse.

There had been an explosion in the buildings where John and Sherlock were held. The fire brigade had been mobilised and was en-route, but the chance of anyone in the building surviving was slim to none. His car had pulled up to the building just after and he had sprung out of the car, examining the building closely for any kind of plausible escape route or way to break in and find the two. Finding nothing, he was left with nothing to do but stand there and watch as the brigade did their job.

A scuffle from behind him caught his attention and drew him out of his momentary freeze. Turning around, he saw his unit struggling to keep their hold on two men, both of whom Mycroft recognised from his files as high-ranking members of the laundering group. He straightened his tie as he walked over to the two of them, who stopped struggling as they noticed the steel in his eyes.

"What became of the two men you had detained this evening."

"Not a clue, and I don't give a damn either," One spat, straightening himself up as much as he could an an attempt to appear as intimidating as Mycroft. He gave up as Mycroft took another step closer to him, lowering his voice to nearly a whisper.

"Wrong answer. The two men you captured tonight were not only very important men to this country, but had high personal connections to men who could make your life a living hell. Their murder will not go unpunished, and you will ultimately realise the drastic mistake you have made by ever involving them in the first place."

The second man faltered, looking at his partner and then back to Mycroft. "Murder? Wait, wait. We didn't murder no-one, we did nothing but that scheme, right?"

His partner, looking significantly less argumentative by now, nodded vigorously. "He's right, we were siphoning money from the royal mail but we didn't murder anyone, honest."

"Told you it would work."

Mycroft spun around at the sound, and it took every bit of his self-control to not react to what he saw. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson stood behind him, covered in a fine dusting of soot and grime but looking pretty smug and definitively not-dead.

"I knew if we led them to believe we were dead, they would confess to their lesser crimes in order to get out of the double murder charge. Granted, I didn't think they'd be dim-witted enough to confess to the whole thing straight out, but that's criminals for you."

Mycroft stared at him, looking for some kind of clue as to how he had made it out of the inferno behind them, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Honestly, Mycroft, surely you can figure this one out? When the explosion occurred, we were thrown backwards, breaking the wooden chairs they were stupid enough to tie us to and allowing us to escape out the back fire escape."

It was Mycroft's turn to roll his eyes, turning back to the criminals behind him. "Consider yourselves lucky." He turned away, walking just past Sherlock and John towards his car, determined to not let Sherlock see the relief in his eyes at the sight of his not-dead brother.

"Next time, brother, do wait for my go."

He heard Sherlock snort as he climbed into his car, shutting the door and driving away.

John looked at Sherlock, grinning slightly. "I'd say he looked a bit concerned. Some might think the British government really has a heart."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, starting off down the street to hail a cab. "Yes, and some people are idiots."


	3. Lestrade

A/N better than the last I suppose? also posting to AO3 if people are interested, over here: /works/678175/chapters/1242451

* * *

DI Lestrade sat in the empty hospital room at St. Thomas's hospital, staring at the disheveled empty bed before him that not an hour before had held the form of Scotland Yard's biggest headache and greatest help to date.

The day had started as most days with Sherlock do - Lestrade was investigating the brutal murder of one of the newer members of Scotland Yard, found on the south bank of the Thames just past the Globe Theatre. Not thirty minutes after, Sherlock had showed up in a flurry of black curls and apologetically amused army doctors, buzzing around the body and deducing things rapid-fire. After less than a few moments, he had somehow managed to solve the murder, complete with the location of the murder, a man called Brian Rogers, who was hiding out in one of the surrounding areas.

He had taken off with John to find him, and Lestrade managed to just keep up with him as he ran in the direction of Blackfriars bridge, diverting at the last second to one of the underpass tunnels beneath the bridge itself. John had run towards the top of the bridge, shouting something about looking near the recess by the train tracks for any sign of Rogers. Lestrade had decided to follow Sherlock, and moments later rounded the corner he had disappeared around.

What he saw made him freeze. Sherlock was on the ground, clearly unconscious, with Rogers standing over him, holding a gun pointed directly at Sherlock. Rogers must have heard him appraoch, however, for he turned around and pointed the gun directly at Lestrade, who countered with his own firearm.

"Put down the gun, Rogers. No one else has to get hurt."

Rogers looked from Sherlock to Lestrade and back, then started moving backwards towards the exit of the tunnel. "This isn't over," he stated before turning and running around the corner. Lestrade decided in that instant Sherlock's well-being was more important, holstering his gun as he shouted for John and running over to his crumpled figure.

Moments later John was examining Sherlock, determining that he had been knocked unconscious from a blow to the head from the butt of the gun Rogers had brandished, and an ambulance was called. Lestrade paced next to John and Sherlock until the ambulance arrived, upon which John barked orders at the paramedics as Sherlock was loaded into the vehicle.

Lestrade made it back to his team, detailing what had occurred and jumping in his car, heading to St. Thomas's to meet up with John and Sherlock. Unable to make contact with John upon arrival, he remained in the waiting room for over an hour until he finally pushed his way past the front desk with his badge and headed into the back.

What he found was not what he had expected. The room he had been told Sherlock was in was empty, but looked as if a hurricane had swept through, with sheets and bandages scattered around the bed. There was a nurse cleaning up in the room, and when Lestrade entered and inquired as to the whereabouts of his wayward detective she left in a hurry, murmuring something about getting the doctor to explain.

The following conversation was not something Lestrade was likely to forget as long as he lived. The doctor sat Lestrade down in one of the chairs in the room, explaining to him how Sherlock had complications from his concussion upon arrival, which had resulted in cardiac arrest. Lestrade didn't need him to explain the results of that, but the doctor continued, apologising quietly and informing him that John had been sent home by 'someone in the government' as Sherlock's body was taken care of, and that Lestrade was welcome to take as much time as he needed in the room and should call someone if he needed anyone.

Which is where Lestrade found himself now, his face in his hands as he tried to battle all the emotions threatening to overtake him. It was hard to not blame himself for all of this - it was his crime scene, he practically had to beg Sherlock to come down that morning, and now it was all over. And John. Lestrade felt a massive pang of guilt as he thought of how devastated John was going to be. He didn't get to dwell on it long, however, as a soft knock on the door brought him out of his stupor.

Sally Donovan was standing in the doorway, a look of concern on her face as she took in his surroundings. "I heard what happened," she said quietly, and Lestrade looked away from her, blinking back what he refused to acknowledge as tears. "Let's get you home."

* * *

Lestrade unlocked the door to his flat, trudging across his doorstep wanting nothing more than to sleep for the rest of eternity. Donovan had led him out of the hospital to his car, driving him home and offering to stay with him for the evening. He waved her off, lying about how fine he was, and promised to talk to her in the morning. He shoved the door closed with his foot, locking it behind him as he shrugged out of his coat and let it fall on the floor, determined to find something to distract himself from the massive guilt he wasn't prepared to live with for the rest of his life. He walked into the dark living room and made it two steps before he heard a soft click of a safety being disengaged from behind him.

"No further, Detective."

Lestrade turned around slowly, coming face-to-face with Brian Rogers, the man from the chase before. It was hard to tell in the dark, but Rogers had the air of an accomplished man about him, and Lestrade straightened himself up, trying to draw upon what little energy he had remaining and wishing he had the foresight to have accepted Donovan's offer to escort him inside.

"You already have two murders on your hands now, Rogers. I don't think a third is going to do you any good," Lestrade tried to reason, and Rogers laughed, sending a chill up his spine.

"The first one was fun, though. I never realised how exhilarating murder could be. And as for the second, everyone wanted Holmes dead, I was just doing the world a favour."

Lestrade clenched his fists at his sides, scanning the room with his peripheral vision for some way out of this mess. "Sherlock Holmes was a great man."

Rogers scoffed. "Says you and no one else. Fortunately, his death leaves you vulnerable, and since you weren't able to catch me with his help, I seriously doubt your so-called team will do much better catching me for your death."

Rogers took a step forward, forcing Lestrade to take an instinctive step back and bump into the coffee table in the middle of the room. "I wish I could say I'm sorry you got involved, but I'd be lying if I denied this was going to be fun." Rogers lowered the gun and aimed it directly at Lestrade's heart. Lestrade looked him in the eyes, bracing himself for the inevitable, when suddenly a flash of movement occurred behind Rogers. There was a sickening smack of metal-on-flesh and Rogers was slumping on the floor, unconscious, with a man standing behind him, tucking a gun into the pocket of his billowing coat. Lestrade stared as the lights flicked on, illuminating the face of Sherlock Holmes, very much alive and standing in his hallway, the only sign of the events from earlier being a bandage taped on the side of his forehead.

"Idiot."

Lestrade sputtered, looking rapidly from Sherlock to the unconscious Rogers on the floor. "How...what...explain. Now."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, stepping over the unconscious Rogers as he pulled out his phone, starting to speak as he fired off a quick text. "Honestly, Lestrade, it's simple. After Rogers incapacitated me, I came to in the hospital and realised that besides me, the only other person who knew the details of who Rogers was and what he was guilty for would be you. If he believed me to be dead, he would come after you, so with the help of John and Molly, the first of which is currently just around the corner and contacting your team, I faked cardiac arrest and came to wait here, knowing it was only a matter of time before Rogers showed up and you came home. I was in the process of sneaking up on him as you came through the door, but your arrival was actually quite fortuitous."

Lestrade stared at Sherlock throughout his whole explanation, and then sunk slowly to sit on the edge of his coffee table, all semblance of energy completely leaving his body. He shook his head slowly, staring at Rogers as Sherlock stared down at him.

"Well, you solved it, I'll give you that, you crazy bastard," Lestrade ran his hands through his hair, looking up at the smug figure standing above him. "Next time, some warning about the whole not-dead thing would be nice."

"Wouldn't have worked without it," Sherlock muttered, stepping over Rogers as he headed into the hallway. "The Yard is nearly here, I'm to make sure they don't screw this one up."

Lestrade shook his head, slowly standing back up as Sherlock rounded the corner. "Sherlock?" The detective looked back around the corner, his piercing blue eyes meeting the soft brown ones of the DI. "I'm glad you're not...I mean...don't do it again."

Sherlock stared at him intently for a moment, then spun around and headed down the hallway, calling back. "Noted."

Lestrade had a sinking feeling this wouldn't be the last time.


End file.
